Eye of the Beholder
by Amatara
Summary: Later, Londo would tell himself he had seen G'Kar's face a million times in his sleep. But that is not how it happened. Not quite.


Truth, like memory, is a fickle thing. Londo learned this before he even learned to speak, which he did swiftly and with relish: that truth has ways of shaping itself to the eye of the beholder. It will sneak up on you without warning, cling to a shifting reality as silk cloth clings to shifting skin. Take the truth, for instance, that he knew G'Kar's face before they even met. It is a truth with a past; a truth which once may have been a lie. Which makes it even more ironic that, these last years, it has grown as dear to him as any other truth he's known.

He had had his death dream, of course, long before G'Kar's path crossed with his. He was seven years old when it came, which was young for a Centauri male. Females, it was said, had their dreams much sooner, often with instant clarity. But Londo's dream was vague, murky, frustratingly useless. All he saw that first night, all he saw for many years after, was that he was old, and crippled, clad in brilliant white while his killer wore rags. That, and how death felt much less frightening than he'd expected.

Later, Londo would tell himself he had seen G'Kar's face a million times in his sleep. That his first glimpse of G'Kar in the flesh had shaken him to the ends of his follicles, to the tips of his toes, because of the dream. But that is not how their first meeting happened. Not quite.

How it happened is rather like this:

Sweat breaks out on his skin the instant he enters the Zocalo – the temperature, or the effect of the dancing girls swaying rhythmically to the music, it is hard to tell. Half of the girls are human, the other half – the _interesting _half – Centauri, their long braids trailing behind them. Londo is making his way to his customary table when he spots him. A Narn. Sitting straight-backed at one of the tables, glass in hand, and watching, so it seems, not the human but the _Centauri_ girls.

Something about that angled Narn silhouette makes Londo pause, and he moves closer, drawn in despite himself. He feels briefly, sharply repulsed – to leer at a past oppressor's daughters and wives, how a Narn must enjoy this – but then realizes, no, not quite like that. This Narn actually finds the girls _attractive. _There are wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that betray his appreciation, and Londo, in turn, appreciates a man who can both hold his liquor and value the finer things in life. If that man is Narn, well, that is unfortunate, but still…

He is distracted by a flash of movement at his side. Someone – Mr. Garibaldi, it turns out – has veered up from a nearby table and is making a beeline towards him, alarm in his face. The Narn's head snaps up, and for a moment when his gaze meets Londo's there is something – a crackle of what is almost recognition, sharp and unexpected but not altogether hostile. Londo works up a measured but jovial smile.

"I'm pleased the beauty of Centauri women is something we can agree on –" he begins, but Garibaldi cuts him off mid-sentence.

"Ambassador – _Londo – _allow me to introduce you. This is Ambassador G'Kar, who has just been appointed here from the Narn homeworld. Ambassador G'Kar, this is Ambassador Mollari, for the Centauri." Garibaldi's eyes flick rapidly between Londo and the Narn.

Londo turns back to face G'Kar, and shrinks back. Whatever spark there was in those eyes has just turned to pure loathing.

He shouts himself awake that night. The dream pulls back roughly, leaving him tangled in sheets that still threaten to choke him. His breath is a thick, wheezing thing bubbling in his lungs, sending him scrambling out of the bed and into the blessedly cool retreat of the kitchen. He calms his nerves with a large flask of Brivari.

Never before has he glimpsed his killer's face. But suddenly, the set of those pursed lips and the glare in that single, ruddy eye, are etched into his memory, crystal clear. They cling to him like the ice-cold sweat on his skin. Like silk. Like the truth he knows they have become.

From that day on, it is as if he _has_ known G'Kar's face all of his life. Or long enough, at least, that there is no difference.

Later, when G'Kar and he are no longer enemies but are slowly becoming something else – not that either of them would presume to call it 'friends' or, the Maker help them, 'lovers' – Londo considers telling him about the dream. Two or three times, he is seconds away from doing so. But then he pictures G'Kar's reaction to his words, imagines disbelief, ridicule, scorn, anger, whichever of G'Kar's carefully reined emotions might surface first. The thought is more than he can bear, and so he does what he does best in the face of fear. He laughs and talks of idle things.

Vir knows, of course. Since Cartagia's death there have been few secrets between them. Certainly not prophecies, or fates, or dreams. Vir has earned the right to know what is coming. Surprise at the depth of Vir's insights is something Londo rarely feels anymore, because he knows how far the boy has come. How far he will still need to go.

"What makes a good emperor?" Vir had asked him once, hollow-cheeked from exhaustion after another grueling Council session. Londo had merely rolled his eyes.

"There have been no 'good' emperors," he had said, bitterly. "There have only been those less terrible than others."

But Vir had replied, softly, eyes not leaving Londo's face, "I think a good emperor should at least believe… that it's possible to be one."

That was one of the first lessons he learned from Vir, and not at all the last. But Vir is still young, and should not have to be burdened with talk of death. The boy has had to grow up too quickly already.

He wonders, sometimes, if he could tell Timov. But she's far away on the Centauri homeworld, and he can already picture the conversation, carried out over a grainy viewscreen: "Remember that Narn from your last visit, my dearest? The one I told you I loathed beyond anything, to which you replied that must mean he is a decent man indeed? Well, I am sleeping with him, and about a decade from now he will squeeze the life out of me with his bare hands."

Bah, even if Timov possessed just a tenth the sense of irony that she does, it still would not work. It would be a worse idea even than telling G'Kar.

Even so, he keeps rehearsing the conversation with G'Kar in his head, feeling more certain each time it will never come to pass. Once again, in the end, that is not what happens.

How it happens is rather like this:

After his heart attack, when he wakes up in Medlab for the second time, he hears a hushed conversation break off in the background. There is the creak of a chair, shuffling footfalls approaching his bedside. Vir, he thinks, with more affection than surprise. He tries to maneuver himself up on his elbows, but cautious fingers find his shoulders and press him back down. A good thing, because the room is spinning disconcertingly.

"You scared us," Vir says, voice rough with what Londo identifies, with the practice of years, as more than simple lack of sleep. "We thought we were going to lose you." Vir's head twists, briefly, to something or someone behind his back. Londo squints, struggles to focus on the blurred silhouette of… Ah. Yes. G'Kar.

As his head starts to clear, Londo weighs his reply. "I wasn't supposed to die," he says finally, taking care not to trip over his own tongue. In retrospect, the fact seems pathetically obvious. G'Kar stands slowly, perhaps to brush off Londo's words as the product of delirium he must think they are. But no, he looks – Londo grimaces at his own pun – almost as deadly earnest as Vir.

"You're being serious, are you?" G'Kar says, and scowls at him from across Vir's shoulder.

Londo sighs, suddenly feeling wearier than he has in months. "Do you believe in prophecy?" he says, tilting his head towards the ceiling. For some reason, he doesn't think he can stand meeting Vir's eyes. "If I tell you I have seen my death, and it was not this, would you believe it?"

G'Kar makes a noise as if he's tempted to jest, then stops himself. "Try me."

"By your hands", Londo wants to say, "I will die by your hands." But all he manages is, "You will be there when it happens." His voice catches in his throat, and he can see G'Kar's surprise at his distress, can see him force a smile. To comfort him, he thinks. G'Kar is _comforting_ him. How things have changed.

"Well, it's good to know that I will survive you," G'Kar says. "Not that, Centauri physique being what it is, I ever doubted that." Another smile, to leave no doubt he is joking.

Londo shivers, and does not smile back.

After taking the throne, after G'Kar and Delenn and Sheridan and Vir and everything he ever cared about are gone and his only companion is the Keeper burrowing into his shoulder, he only wishes he had said more. G'Kar would have understood. Would have accepted his word, his belief, that one day in the future they would take each other's lives. Would have shared the burden without shrinking from it. As it is, all that remains to him of G'Kar are his dreams.

His first night as Emperor, he lies straight-backed on top of the covers, not even hoping for the relief of sleep. Yet it snatches him away like a long-lost lover, into the dream that he no longer fears. Watching G'Kar emerge from the shadows. Hearing his own lips form the only question that fits, a question that isn't a question but a truth they both know. For his people to live, he must die. There has never been a price he was more willing to pay.

He wonders, wrapped up in the tendrils of sleep, if G'Kar knows. If he still hopes, somehow, to escape with his life. But the matter is academical. Once G'Kar kills the Emperor, his life is forfeit anyhow.

Londo doesn't flinch when hands close on his larynx; he has lived through the sensation countless times. What he has never felt until this night is the sense of peace that comes with it. The warmth of living skin against his own, not an executioner's but an ally's, a friend's. He feels his strength leave him, closes his eyes against a sudden explosion of light.

His Keeper stirs an instant after he dares to hope that it may not. He forces his eyes open, finds his hands on G'Kar's throat, G'Kar's face close enough to touch.

"Forgive me," he whispers, the words slipping by the Keeper's defenses only because it is so intent on saving itself. "Forgive me," and means it.

And for a brief, impossible moment, before he wakes from the dream, he could swear G'Kar's good eye is smiling. "I already have."

Of course, that is not how it will –

No.

He is sure it will happen exactly like this.


End file.
